


the certainties of this world

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Series: Pinkerton AU [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, PWP, Pinkerton!Arthur au, except not so much anymore, happy ranch fam ending, light D/s elements, light and fluffy, no wait there's the hurt of cold unforgiving..... taxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 09:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: John Marston had his knees in the dirt, his hands on Arthur’s bare hips, and his face three inches from the intended goal when he looked up and asked, “What do you know about property taxes?”"What," was Arthur's response. John didn't look too impressed over it, but then, neither was Arthur impressed over John's timing.





	the certainties of this world

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically set after my pinkerton!au fic [Paint the Town Green,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16919169/chapters/39750426) but as it's gratuitous and fluffy smut, all you really need to know is that Arthur, Charles, John, Abigail and Jack are living the happy ranch life and that mostly everybody made it out from the game events just fine. 
> 
> TB? don't know her. anyway, enjoy!

John Marston had his knees in the stray straw and raked dirt of a recently cleaned horse stall, his hands on Arthur’s bare hips, and his face three inches from his intended goal when he looked up and asked, “What do you know about property taxes?”

“ _What,_ ” was Arthur’s response, packed to the brim with enough confusion to knock John back to sit on his heels. Pants shucked to his ankles and flushed pink to his chest, Arthur must’ve looked a right idiot. He’d rode back in from bounty hunting two days prior, just barely beating out a snow storm; meanwhile, Jack had come down with a seasonal cold and required tending to at near all hours, leaving his guardians too exhausted for much beyond chores-- until, _finally_ , Arthur and John happened to work the not-so-cold barn together, happened to catch each other’s eyes, mutually agree they had time to spare, and let one thing lead to another. The one thing here being John’s doe-eyes and Arthur’s need to kiss him. 

As they’d progressed satisfactorily from there, in reflex to keep John from - god forbid - getting up and leaving entirely, Arthur’s hand snapped from its place on the wall behind him to John’s hair, strands of black tightly fisted. 

“Property taxes,” John repeated, head tilted up easily under Arthur’s hand. “What do you know about them.” 

Sometimes he felt like a tussle before giving in; today, he seemed happy to skip that particular brand of foreplay and get right down to business. Had been the right business, too, up until he started in about actual business. 

“You want to talk about property taxes,” Arthur eased his grip as John leaned forward again, pressing his face into the dip of Arthur’s hip, his nose buried in the brownish curls, “right now?”

“Just wondering how much you know about them,” John responded, words a distracting sensation along the base of Arthur’s prick, “because I know less than nothing. And we got a, a notice. About them. A big red slip stuck on the door.”

“Starting to think I should be taking offense,” Arthur moved a hand to stroke down John’s face and press, light, at the hinge of his jaw, “that I’m boring you so bad you’d rather ponder on _taxes._ ” 

“Didn’t mean it like that, jackass.” 

Spoken a touch defensively. He opened his mouth all the same, licking a hot stripe from base to tip and worked him in from there. Pressed the head against the roof of his mouth, tongue curled along the underside, like he was feeling out the size that must’ve been long memorized. Had his teeth covered nice and gentle, didn’t get overzealous and try to take him all at once only to choke and gag on his pride. A far fucking cry from his first time trying to give head, every step of which Arthur had been present for. After all the close calls, it was a miracle there was anything left. 

The happy result from the road long traveled made for one hell of a sight, though. In the present moment, it made Arthur grit his teeth, hold himself still, and push down the encouragement that wanted to escape his throat. Not getting the reaction he wanted served John right, throwing him as off-guard as he had about the mystery taxes. 

“What I know is, government wants your money. Can’t imagine it’s much more complicated than anybody else wanting the same,” he said, finally. Settled his hands atop John’s head, impulse caught temporarily between grabbing and caressing. Fed then into the latter, smoothing the long, loose strands back out of John’s face. Sometimes John fought all manners of kindness until he’d backed himself into the crossroads of exhaustion and satiation; today, that too he failed to indulge. On one hand, John letting go of the point in favor of pleased humming and lidded eyes made for a quieter, simpler reunion. One no less enjoyable than if they’d gotten themselves scuffed up with enough dust and dirt that Abigail and Charles could rightfully rib them over it. On the other hand, John’s absolute ease tipped Arthur off into thinking something was off. Man didn’t bend peacefully unless he were already laid out on the ground.

The warning bell continued sounding in the back of his mind as John worked him over. Dimmed, as John made a more compelling case for his attention than taxes, but remained. Meant he kept his grip gentle in John’s hair, even as John swallowed him down and dragged a hiss from between his teeth. Pushed his hips forward, still, chasing the heat when John withdrew for air. Put pressure on keeping John close just as John liked no matter his mood. Lidded his own eyes as John breathed heavy through his nose, his whole body leaning hard into Arthur’s space. 

Slid his boot over and forward. Pressed the tip against John’s tented pants. Relished his moan, a warm vibration that nudged his hips forward - bumped against the back of John’s throat, held himself there as John writhed, grinding rough and uncoordinated against his shin, his hands dropped to drag blunt nails along Arthur’s thigh. _No teeth_ even as Arthur pulled back, gave John time to catch his breath, and then set up a measured push-pull deep down John’s throat.

Used to be a miracle not to worry every second about the likelihood of retaining his manhood in one piece when venturing near John’s mouth. Now, months in, it inspired Arthur to murmur a low, “There you go,” and, after John took him to the hilt and while he near choked on it, “My gorgeous boy. Got so good at this, haven’t you.”

Tears hovered at the edges of John’s eyes as Arthur let him go and he pulled all the way back, gasping. Lips shining, saliva trailing between them, he mouthed along his shaft even as he caught his breath. He’d fallen into grinding to Arthur’s dragging rhythm, but as he no longer had his focus swallowed up by swallowing down, he spread his legs wider, dropped himself lower and rutted against Arthur’s boot. Rough. Quick. 

Absolutely filthy. 

Prompted Arthur to say, voice a rasp and eyes glued to the scene, “Goddamned animal as always, John. Might as well be fucking begging for it.”

That got him bared teeth in guise of a smile. A challenge. Marred by how he didn’t leave off his grinding, but then, that was a _fuck you_ point of its own. 

The warning bell in the back of his mind dimmed further. This was more the John he’d been expecting. Felt safer to tug his hair, to pull his head back and rub a wet line along his cheek. To take himself in hand and trace over John’s newly closed mouth, slight beard-burn be damned. He held those blown-dark eyes’ gaze, felt himself swallow around a dry throat. By the smug edge to John’s expression, he saw through what bravado Arthur shoved into his voice.

“You want me to fuck you into the dirt? Is that it?” Licked his lips. Watched John’s eyes follow the movement. Felt a little smug, himself. “Don’t want to walk straight for a week?”

“You ain’t that big, Arthur, c’mon.”

“Sure,” Arthur drawled, dragging the syllable far longer than necessary. Couldn’t help giving John’s cheek a patronizing pat, his cock still laid against his other. “Wall. Now.”

Funny enough, John didn’t protest that one.

Would’ve been funny how quick he scrambled up and over if it weren’t so damned enticing. How the man found clothing that refused to leave any part of him to the imagination, Arthur would never know. They shopped at the same tailor in Blackwater, and yet John walked out looking as if his shirt and pants were painted on. It was all an illusion, however, as the fabric fell off him easy as anything: unclip the suspenders here, roughly shove his pants and boxer shorts down there, and they were gold. Pressed flesh to flesh, John’s hands on the stall door, back bowed and legs spread far as his pants let him, Arthur slotted along his back as if they were two pieces carved from the same tree. 

Typically Arthur had his satchel, in which he’d gotten resourceful and clever enough to start carrying bear grease wherever he went. Didn’t need a satchel to muck a barn-- and if it’d been Charles, they’d have enough sense between the two of them to shelve fucking until he got to his supply, or at the very least to put a pin in the situation and go fetch some. Problem was, John had a pension for recklessness a mile wide, and as with most things Marston, it was infectious.

For instance, he said, “Spit’s fine, I can take it,” his words tight and breathless and his whole body really, truly begging for it, and hell if Arthur had ever been much good at saying no to those he got on with, never mind when his own body very much agreed. 

Spitting in one hand and curling a finger at John’s entrance-- pausing without even pressing in, letting John’s shiver run its course-, he reached around to take John in hand. Felt its weight, its slim but long length; rubbed a thumb through the slick beaded at the head, brushing gentle down the slit. Low and impatient, John cursed his name. Even stamped his foot, like some restless horse. Despite his bluster, he dropped his head against the wall by the second spit-slicked finger in him. Cursed Arthur’s name again, the muscles under his clinging shirt rippling as his arms trembled. On second thought, the curse could’ve been from how Arthur stroked him: tight, sure pulls, wringing him out before he had anything to give.

“Old man, if you don’t hurry up, I’m--”

“You come before me, Marston, and I’ll _really_ take you on a ride.”

His back bowed further, moan half-bitten and hardly-hidden.

The barn was well-built and new enough that wind struggled to creep in between its boards. Right then, Arthur wished for a breeze: heat collected between and around them, the mercifully clean stall musty from old hay and horse and their shared musk. 

Three fingers was enough, Arthur decided. By the tremble in John’s arms and legs, he’d probably agree.

Regretted his decision not one bit as he lined up and pushed in, inch by agonizingly slow inch. John’s heat sank into his very bones, chasing away any lingering winter chill. Settled one hand on John’s shoulder, the other curled tight and momentarily stilled around his cock. Breathed out slow and long as he sank to the hilt in one long, merciless thrust, noting in a warm haze John’s equally drawn-out groan and, by the end, teeth-clenched hiss.

“Fuck,” John said, feathery light, “Arthur. Goddamn.”

“Yeah?” Arthur squeezed John’s shoulder. Squeezed his cock, too. 

“Alright, fine,” John lifted his head enough to glance over his shoulder, “not so small. Bastard.”

Arthur snorted. Readjusted his grip from John’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. Squeezed there, taking a moment to appreciate how John’s eyes fluttered shut and how he pressed his cheek against the wall. _Trusting._ So full of trust, Arthur’s heart wanted to bust out of its ribs. 

Rather than give in to the sentimentality -- the _absurdity_ , as Arthur would put it; Charles would disagree, but Charles had more fondness for pretty, fanciful ideas than he liked to admit -- he eased himself back out to the tip. John tensed, predicting what pace Arthur would set. To his own detriment, as the tension just made it worse (Arthur knew that well enough, from the foolish nights before he’d figured out the trick behind amply applied grease). Maybe not to his own detriment, though, as he relished the burn. So long as nobody bled, Arthur didn’t question it.

Arthur rode him rough and fast-- shoved John farther up the wall when he started to lose his footing, his boots slipping in the dust. Fucked him loose, then looser still. Curled his fingers tight at the base of his cock with a growled, _Not done yet,_ when he felt John tense around him in a telling fashion. John didn’t bother cursing him yet again; he moaned his name instead, full of want. Ended up turning John around and lifting him up, his back still to the wall. Let him clamp his legs around Arthur’s waist and his arms around his shoulders, his cock thick and ruddy between them. 

Arthur came with John’s mouth on his in a messy, uncoordinated joining that was more them sharing breath than a kiss. Kept John pulled close as he did, spilling deep into him with buzzing pleasure. John dropped his hand between them within one breath and the next, twisting his hand around the head of his cock once-- twice--- and tipping off the edge after Arthur, coming hot and quick across both their shirts. Shoved his mouth back to Arthur’s to hide his desperate noises, their teeth clicking together with a pin prick of pain and a whole lot of relief.

As John soon grew too heavy in his suddenly shaky arms, Arthur shuffled himself around and sank to the ground. Winced some at the mess they’d made between the two of them and the bath they’d both undoubtedly need. Staved off the latter by keeping John on him even as he softened, though he could feel his slick beginning to leak out the edges of where they joined. Typically he was of the mind to disengage and clean up soon as possible, but John enjoyed milking his post-coital bliss as long as he could, which included staying together for as long as comfort allowed.

True to form, John made a face at their mess, but didn’t get up. Let himself ignore it in favor of laying against Arthur’s chest, in fact, his face nuzzled into Arthur’s neck. _That_ level of post-coital bliss was a relatively new and fragile development that only showed up when it was the two of them. Something neither mentioned to out loud, let alone to the others. In any case, Arthur wouldn’t question it.

John took Arthur playing with his hair better these days, too. Let him thread his fingers through it and scratch at his scalp. Caught in the strange, subdued mood he was, John didn’t even complain when he started absently winding strands around his fingers. John’s wasn’t near as soft as Charles’ or Abigail’s, but it was pretty all the same. Almost made Arthur want to grow his out. Then again, his _own_ hair wouldn’t be half as fun to mess with.

In the midst of such wandering, light-hearted thoughts, the caution he’d pushed down earlier rose back up. Its warning nature had lightened to a vague curiousity.

“How much do you owe?”

John made an inquisitive noise against his neck. Sounded like he was about to fall asleep, which wouldn’t do. They were alright at the moment, but eventually the dirt would stop being welcoming, the stall’s musty musk would start being off-putting, mess between them would grow too cool and tacky to ignore and, worst of all, Arthur’s legs would fall asleep under John’s weight.

“In the property taxes,” Arthur prompted, still not as concerned as he maybe should’ve been. 

“Don’t think I should have to pay it,” John grumbled, a bit more awake with his spite. “It’s _my_ land. Don’t see why I gotta pay them a dime more than I already have.”

“Easier motto to live by when you haven’t got a door to nail notices to.”

“I _guess._ ”

Silence.

Then, John shifting his weight and making Arthur wince -- _sensitive_ , the first of a laundry list of reasons to get up --, to look him warily in the eye. A question hovered there about what they could do.

Arthur saw it, and didn’t really know what answer John expected to get. Despite whatever notion John had built up in his head regarding him, he rarely had answers at the ready. He especially didn’t have answers regarding making an honest living in polite ranching society.

“Listen.” Arthur sighed, dropping his head back against the barn wall, his hand stilling in John’s hair. “John. Like you, I haven’t paid any taxes, property or otherwise, a day in my life. You are asking the wrong feller for advice.”

John frowned. “Who should I ask? Charles has never had land. Abigail’s still worried over paying off the water tower. Don’t want to ruin her day with more money owed.” Then added, in a mutter, “She’d probably say it was my fault for not reading the fine print.”

Arthur eyed him. Wondered if he were being serious or just talking to talk. Hard to tell, sometimes. “Reckon it is your fault, seeing as it’s your taxes that you haven’t paid.”

“I guess,” John muttered, again shifting and making Arthur wince. “It was saying I owed a lot of money. And that if I didn’t pay by April, they’d take the ranch.”

“We’re resourceful. We’ll be fine.” John dropped his gaze. After a moment, he even moved to get off Arthur -- made them _both_ wince as the chill barn air hit Arthur where it was most sensitive, while John dealt with (in Arthur’s opinion) odd feeling of emptying out after being packed full. As he did, Arthur watched him before he pressed on with a wary, “How much’s a lot?”

John shrugged his shoulders. Shook his head. Hauled up his pants, his knees shaky and legs bowed. Arthur tried not to let it distract him. 

Finally, John said how much.

Arthur stared. 

Asked if he was joking.

He said no, no he wasn’t. 

“Put the paper under the sink if you want to look at it,” he said, shoulders stiff.

“Sweet mother of…,” Arthur stopped himself. Rubbed his hand over his face. Pushed himself to his feet, dragging up his pants too for a smidgen of misguided dignity and so that he could lean in and hiss, “ _John,_ that is a _lot_ of money.”

“You think I don’t realize that?” Bristling, John straightened himself even further. So much for the post-coital bliss. It’d had a decent run, Arthur thought sourly.

“When’d you get this notice? It’s _February._ Fuck, it’s nearly March.”

John winced. “Got it in January. Didn’t know what to do with it. Was hoping it’d go away if I ignored it long enough.”

At the admission,he looked absolutely miserable. That and that alone made Arthur forego clocking his ears. Mood officially gone, he reached around awkwardly to snag his suspenders and get his pants properly hooked up. John watched him, his own pants held up in one hand because of course those skin-tight things didn’t slip near as easy as any pants did on Arthur. 

“Thought we had time to relax,” Arthur grumbled as he clipped on his suspenders, giving John a glare because how in the world did the prospect of losing the house not turn him on his head, “but apparently, you’ve got business to attend to with the damned government.”

“No way we’re getting that kind of money, Arthur.”

Somehow, he looked even more miserable at saying that. Was on his feet, sure, but had his head down and his shoulders slumped, his hair falling into his face. Arthur carefully restrained himself from reaching out and shaking him over it.

Demanded instead, stepping close and gripping his shoulders but _not_ shaking him down, “Is that why you’re being so calm? You think we’re belly-up already?”

John continued to dodge his eyes. He told his boots, “I’m being realistic. Best bet we got is packing up now and getting beyond the horizon line by spring.”

“You’re being a doubter, and it’s an ugly look on you.” 

“ _You’re_ sounding like Dutch.”

That stung. It hurt, in a way too good and bad and confusing for him to want to think on.

“We aren’t losing the ranch,” Arthur told him, slow and enunciated and with just the _tiniest_ shake to his shoulders to punctuate the words. “Knock off the pity party. Other folks pay taxes all the time.”

“Sure, over-- two years.”

“Is that how long you’ve been evading?”

“Yes.” With more bite, his defeat slow to recede but starting. Thank fuck it started receding, because what Arthur _did_ know of taxes was that it was the one thing normal folks never dodged out of. Really didn’t need John acting like the world had already ended to boost his confidence over it not. John added, somber, “We are on an insanely short time period, Arthur.”

“All thanks to you, you dumbass.” John finally met his eyes at that, his gaze narrowed in reflexive offense. Arthur squeezed his shoulder in what he hoped was encouragement and not his own frustration or self-doubt. “Hey. Been in worse binds than Uncle Sam wanting some money, haven’t you?” 

John searched his face. 

Inch by agonizing inch, he found his feet again. Said, with dry amusement, “That’s for sure. Been shaken down by worse folk, too.” 

“Exactly. Imagine we can handle whatever two-bit lackey shows up to collect. Buy us more time if we need it.”

John snorted. “We’ll need it.”

Arthur sucked in a breath. “Oh. We’ll absolutely need it.”

“Alright. Least we can say we tried.” A beat. “Figure we might as well tell the other two together, now.”

“I recommend we do so outside the kitchen,” Arthur warned him, honest through and through. “Don’t know how she burns water, but she’s got a way with knives. Charles, too.”

“Thanks,” John said, and meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> but they got the money and continued to live happily ever after and that's that yessirree
> 
> may keep dabbling in this verse for character exploration/introspection as well as happy ranch time while between other stories. never enough happiness to fill the sad void the game left, lbr. (let's pretend Dutch and Hosea are fine too, yep totally.)
> 
> find me on tumblr @ [unkingly](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/) or twitter @ [exkingly](https://twitter.com/exkingly)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Blowing Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845550) by [fallen_arazil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallen_arazil/pseuds/fallen_arazil)




End file.
